AND NO CUSSING!

Having gone to bed early because I was exhausted yesterday evening, naturally I was up far too early this morning. Neither the sun nor the street people were up yet when I stepped out after coffee wearing a sweater. San Francisco on June mornings can be cold. Heat requires daylight. Sun, bright rays, bums and loonies freshly awake. Well, maybe not so much the latter. The first definitely.

There really should be a place where one can get a hot frikandel or kroket at this hour along with a decent cup of coffee. While smoking one's pipe. I'm thinking of brighly lit coffee shops on railway platforms in minor Netherlandish industrial towns, ages ago. Brilliant places of succour and respite. The whole world should be like that. Windows on all four sides, and pleasantly smelling of, among other things, the perfume of dark Dutch shag tobacco.


The world seemed like a wonderful place early in the morning then.
It was probably raining, and gloomy outside the station.
But there were lights, smells, and coffee.

The railway station coffee shop on the platform seemed a gateway to a different universe, and one supected that if one suddenly turned around, reality would shift and show something and somewhere else. A different plane, scifi planet, an alternate dimension, a dreamtime vista of strange buildings and unknown creatures. Birds with exotic plumage.

Yesterday a tightly hotpantsed freakazoid wandered into my work, seriously hungover and desperate for cheap ciggies. His eye shadow was sloppily applied and his ear rings askew. His morning had been filled with strife. A truck driver had honked at him, and there had been altercation. What is this world coming to when rightwing redneck yutzes with huge American flags on their small-dick vehicles have such bad attitudes? Horrible. He needed a drink!

The backroom crowd wasn't in yet. They would have set him right. They have bourbon.

Personally, I do not approve of bourbon much before the cocktail hour, and it wasn't even lunchtime yet. As I understand it, bourbon and grits is a thing. Bourbon and the remains of the morning's bowl of oatmeal, as I imagine many of those senile old gits who are regularly back there to habitually do before they come in, is not something to which I cotton.


Also, I'm not fond of bourbon in any case. It's good for late nights on a sidewalk in the Tenderloin. Where I wouldn't be at that hour in any case. Not being a junior executive.


Really, we need a glass on four sides Netherlandish trainstation coffee shop at the top of Nob Hill to beckon us warmly in the early morning fog. With factory workers swilling strong coffee and smoking dark shag in the wee hours. Pan handlers strictly advised to sit up straight!



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